


Picture Book

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2004
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-25
Updated: 2004-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:20:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things never change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Book

Crowley felt confident in his ability to sum up any photograph in no more than five words, give or take a few modifiers. He remembered most things with crystal clarity, a skill that had come to full fruition after several millennia of honing, quite free from the aid of any sort of prominent physical record. It granted him a significant amount of leisure to glaze over certain descriptions during retellings, as well as to embellish appropriate details as he saw fit. Such a system had never failed him in the past [1].

Photographs, on the other hand, were ultimately bound by the fact that they were created to tell the truth [2]. It was rather inconvenient.

A thousand words somehow seemed excessive, in any event.

It was only natural, then, that Aziraphale should hold the opposite opinion.

He said as much, visibly ignoring the anxious progress of Crowley’s footsteps that paced between the rain-streaked windows of the shop, and his voice rose and fell melodically as he continued to thumb through a shoebox of miscellaneous photographs, snapshots of this holiday at Brighton and that retreat on the Adriatic.

“Ah, delightful,” Aziraphale cried, holding a small print aloft. “Bavaria, 1903. I must say... you looked so very charming in lederhosen.”

Crowley felt a pinch of sickness at the pit of his stomach as he leaned over Aziraphale’s shoulder for a closer look. “That was a rotten trick of an agreement, angel.”

“But it was an agreement, nonetheless.”

“Where were you, anyway?”

Aziraphale grinned guiltily. “I took the photograph, of course. See?” He pointed to an edge and the evidence of a thumb that had partially blocked the lens. “What a pity,” he sighed, shaking his head.

With a groan, Crowley slumped onto the settee and asked himself for the hundredth time why he had not yet thrown on his jacket and fled the scene, abandoning the angel to work through this dubious pastime on his own. It wasn’t for want of company -- there were thousands of people who would be quite eager to make his acquaintance, he was certain -- and there were countless other ways to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon, not to mention ones that were decidedly less wholesome.

“If your people ever need another plague to toss onto humanity, they ought to consider looking no further than forced viewings of old holiday photographs,” Crowley grumbled, reaching for the television dial, though he made it no further than a championship cribbage match before Aziraphale shot him a look that meant nothing if not to behave himself. “Fine, fine,” he said, sitting back again, and placed a hand over his eyes. “Wake me up when you’ve finished and we’ll do the Ritz.”

Aziraphale opened a large, leather-bound picture book. “What a stunning moment in time _that_ was,” he murmured, lightly tapping Crowley’s thigh.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Crowley replied, begrudgingly looking out from the shadow of his hand. “Er, was that...”

Aziraphale beamed. “Yes. Durango, 1925.”

“Ngk.” Crowley shuddered. “For Go-- Sat-- _someone’s_ sake, put that bloody thing away.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. We really ought to go back there someday. I’m sure the local residents won’t rememb--”

“No,” Crowley broke in. “I’ll not be made a fool of by winged beasts.”

Aziraphale chuckled faintly. “And what of hoofed ones?”

“That’s quite enough.” Crowley glared with finality and shifted his attention to the tea tray that sat untouched before them. With a steady hand, he filled his cup and gritted his teeth. It was insufferable. Really, he thought, I’m of the mind to see that the angel never sets his hands on another cam-- “Milk?”

“Here you are, my dear.”

“Much obliged.” Crowley sipped his tea.

Although his opinion of the photographic medium had altered very little over the past century, he found that he was forced to acknowledge the superiority of modern cameras. It was true that he slept though most of the nineteenth century; on the few occasions when he woke up, Aziraphale had habitually dragged him into daguerreotype studios.

Sitting perfectly still for over an hour was not, and has never been, Crowley’s idea of a good time, though it was indubitably preferable to the great exertions required for actual portrait paintings [3].

With the advent of more time-friendly cameras, Aziraphale had been charmed by the idea of paper moons of all shapes and sizes; Crowley was stridently relieved when that particular innovation had worn out its welcome in polite society, but it only encouraged repeated visits to grubby, self-service photo booths in train stations and comedic costume galleries at the seaside.

Aziraphale had quite suddenly become attached to all manner of photographs. To Crowley’s horror, he bought expensive pieces of equipment for the production of holiday snap-shots, at once beginning to paste them into picture books, and when those were filled to capacity, he dotingly tossed them into shoeboxes.

Crowley discouraged such sentimentalities, though it seemed that the angel’s fate had been sealed with his very first shutter clicks and estimations of f-stop.

“Oh!” Aziraphale laughed suddenly, holding up another photograph. “Do you remember this?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, leaning forward to take it.

Yes, he remembered.

It had been shot in front of the Eiffel Tower, a photographic novelty that forever marked them as tourists. Crowley’s vehement exclamations [4] were temporarily laid to rest as Aziraphale insisted on its iconic validity.

Aziraphale looked much as he always had, slightly baffled and inherently affable. He smiled openly, his hand set upon Crowley’s shoulder, fingertips making gentle creases in Crowley’s jacket. A bit thinner, perhaps; the War had somewhat curtailed his consumption of custard-filled biscuits, though that fairly poignant problem was remedied soon afterwards.

Even held in aging dots of sepia, the angel’s eyes were the same, unsettlingly bright despite the light creases that marked the flesh on his temples. Humans often attributed them to laughter, which is exactly the reaction that Crowley paid Aziraphale as he gradually became aware of their presence some two-thousand years before. Aziraphale had apparently taken a fancy to certain physical signs of fallibility, an ironic fact which still filled Crowley with a clouded sort of disquiet.

It somehow didn’t seem proper, though with or without glazed descriptions and embellished details, Crowley had trouble imagining the angel as being otherwise.

He remembered the way that Aziraphale’s scarf had fluttered freely with the warm breeze, and that his gaze had lingered on Aziraphale’s hands long after the silken knot was retied with a flourish of fingers.

There was something odd about his own expression, though. It was the angle of his head, perhaps, or nothing more than a trick of the lighting as the day had been brilliant and clear. His smile, a quiet curl of his lips, showed the barest hint of teeth, and his eyes were free from the shadow of darkened spectacles, wide with what may have been a hint of relief. He had wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s back, hand falling softly on his hip. The breeze touched his cheek, tousling his hair.

He looked genuinely happy.

In that moment, perhaps he had been.

Moving his fingertips over the photograph’s delicately creased edges, Crowley turned it over and read the sweeping lines of Aziraphale’s script: _Paris, August 26, 1945_.

There were glasses of bottled sunshine waiting for them at an open-air cafe, and several more back in their hotel room with the wide balcony that looked out over the Seine. Was it hope that had hung so freely upon the air, twining with the scents of freshly baked bread and late-blooming roses? Songs were sung and prayers were whispered, and Crowley knew that the hours were somehow altered as words became unclear and Aziraphale stood so closely at his side.

He now shook his head, forcing his features into a scowl.

“What a picturesque day,” Aziraphale said. “The weather was extraordinarily well, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hmm?” Crowley looked up. “Oh, yes, I suppose it may have been. I do seem to recall that the American servicemen in the room above ours were a bit bawdy for your taste, a point which you were really quite vocal on... and the river stank of discarded German military provisions.”

“Nonsense,” the angel chirped, snatching the photograph out of Crowley’s hands and fondly slipping it back into the picture book.

“Yes, well.” Crowley slumped into the cushions, nodding occasionally as Aziraphale once more held up this or that snap-shot, complete with enthusiastic commentary, and Crowley’s eye drifted back to the print of Paris every few minutes. “How about some more tea?” he asked at length, pointing to his empty cup.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said with a chuckle. “Certainly, my dear. Let me put the kettle on.”

As Aziraphale stepped towards the kitchenette, Crowley quickly sat up and pushed the photograph into his shirt pocket, closing the picture book with a swift turn of his wrist. He stood and lightly brushed himself off as he called, “I’ve just remembered -- there’s a bit of business that I’ll need to take care of this afternoon. Don’t worry about the tea.”

Aziraphale turned, a frown gracing across his features. “What about the Ritz?”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley asserted, throwing his jacket on. “I’ll ring you.”

“But is it really so urgent? I’ve not seen...”

Crowley tried to force his smile into the shape of an apology. “You know how these things are. I’ll ring you,” he repeated simply, swinging the door open.

The bell jingled.

“Tomorrow, then,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley quickly passed onto the pavement.

Some things never change.

\---------------------

[1] Except for, Aziraphale was so consistently eager to remind him, an unfortunate “incident” in fourteenth century Flanders.

[2] Ansel Adams was the most prominent exception to this rule, of course.

[3] Crowley’s first (and last) attempt at sitting for a proper portrait resulted in the destruction of a small village on the outskirts of Florence.

[4] To this day, Crowley refuses to see that famous landmark as anything other than a lightening rod that has been stripped of all aesthetic value.


End file.
